


Making a Point

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: A pub brawl, a police raid, and a man with something to hide.  Written for JWP 2017 #1.





	Making a Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP 2017 #1: Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.  
> Warnings: Senseless violence. OC POV. And absolutely no beta. Written in a huge rush. Be very afraid. I know I am.

I done for the bastard who hit me over the head with a glass, but I soon wish I’d’ve just given him a kick in the cod instead. For all of a sudden there are whistles and police at every door – a raid, sure as hell – and me with a bloke bleedin’ out on the floor not three feet away from me from the poke I gave his kidney.

A fellow crashes into me, tryin’ to rush for one of the doors, and I take the chance to drop my bloody knife in one of his coat pockets. That’s one problem gone, and in the following riot a half-a-dozen blokes trample the bastard on the floor. With any luck, nobody’ll notice right off there’s more to his condition than being in a pub brawl and winding up on the wrong side of twelve boots.

I go meek as a lamb with the bobby who grabs me, faking like the blow to my head has addled my wits. The blood running down my face makes my act all the more convincing, too. I sag as we come out onto the street, hoping he’ll leave me leaning against a wall or sitting on the kerb, and I’ll have a chance to slip off. 

There are more bobbies outside, far more fuss than you’d see for just a common raid. I catch a glimpse of a shorter, slighter figure directing some of them, and I swallow down the urge to swear. I know him, though he’s never yet laid eyes on me to know it (and not for a lack of trying): Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Worse and worse. There’s some tall, lean gent next to him, staring at each man a bobby brought near. That along with the Inspector’s presence tells me plain as plain that they’re lookin’ for someone particular. It might even be me. I slump a little more in the bobby’s grip, let my head droop to my chest, and hope to pass unnoticed. Not that I’m the sort to just trust to hope, but it’s a start.

“No fainting now, nor getting sick, there’s a good man,” the bobby mutters at me. He sounds concerned-like, and he changes his hold so he’s more supporting me than hauling me along, which is all to the better. If he’s half as green as all that, he’ll leave me alone, and I’ll have my chance.

“Doctor Watson!” The bobby hails someone. I don’t dare look up, or seem to take any notice as the bobby steers me closer to where the Inspector stands. He doesn’t get very far, though, before I see a pair of brown tweed trousers, sturdy shoes, and the tip of a cane – all I can see with my head hanging down. 

“Constable Brown, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir. This man is hurt, and there’s a mort more fellows to bring out. Can I leave him in your care?”

“Yes, I can see he’s taken a blow to the head. Help him sit down, and I’ll see what I can do.”

The bobby does as he’s told, and soon enough I’m sitting on the cobbles in the care of a very ordinary-looking man holding a doctor’s bag. The doctor leans heavily on his cane as he kneels down beside me, and I know he’ll be no trouble at all. All I need is a distraction, and I know one’s coming soon enough. My own work, no less.

It takes longer than I could have imagined. The doctor has time to wipe the cut on my head with something that stings like the devil, and start sponging away the blood that’s streamed down my face. That’s the last thing I want, but I don’t dare show it. He pauses once, and I almost think he’s noticed something, but then he resumes wiping just as before.

I hear a rising commotion, and I know my chance is coming. A sound of running steps, and then an excited voice. “Inspector! Inspector Lestrade! We’ve found a murdered man in the middle of the pub!”

There’s an immediate hubbub, and I can sense as much as see men moving off, drawn towards the pub and the prospect of a dead body. The doctor, though, must be a dullard, for he keeps on swiping at my skin like nothing’s happened. All the worse for him, then. I glance around quickly from beneath my half-lowered lids and see no one else immediately nearby. It’s the best chance I’m going to have.

I twist and send a fist flying into the doctor’s face – or at least I mean to. The doctor’s quick as a cat and somehow twists out of the way, taking my blow on his shoulder instead of the jaw. He grabs onto me, trying to hold me down, maybe, or who knows what. I grab my cosh out of my pocket and smash it into the fellow’s knee.

I know I hit him, and hit him well, for the colour drains from his face and he gasps in pain. But his grip doesn’t lessen, so I swing it up and against his temple, a swift tap before he can cry out. It’s enough to ring his bell, but he clings to consciousness somehow, and he still doesn’t let me go. I raise my arm to finish the job – 

A grip of steel catches my wrist. A sharp, lancing pain stabs out from where fingers dig into my tendons, and I lose my grip on the cosh. I try to struggle, but that selfsame grip is relentless, and I’m yanked to my knees by an unbelievable strength.

The tall, lean man I’d seen earlier glares down at me, eyes like the glint of steel from one of my knives. “Slasher Williams, I believe. I am Sherlock Holmes, and you are fortunate there are so many policemen to hand. Your arrest is long overdue.”

That’s what he _said_ , but I know the look in his eyes, what it means. Something in me flinches back, recognizes a man more dangerous than I am. Many hands grab me, wrench me away. Though I fight them as hard as I can, a small part of me is relieved to be in their company, and away from _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 1, 2017


End file.
